These Words
by muchtvs
Summary: Future One-shot. No pairing. Ryan and Sophie. I stole the name Jackson from brandywine.


These Words

by muchtvs

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Ryan notices when no one else does.

Sophie is wearing a thick sweatshirt on an August afternoon and even in unpredictable Berkeley it's too warm for a jacket this heavy.

She sits on the deck watching her brother and father grill swordfish, her palms buried under the cuffs of the hoodie, her knuckles clutching the fabric, reminding Ryan of the raggedy baby blanket she used to cling to and drag everywhere she went. She's been quiet all night and that's not like Sophie. That's not like any Cohen with Sandy genealogy. But she's sixteen and Ryan more than anyone else in this house knows what it's like to be sixteen and not want to be fully engaged in the activities around you. Maybe she doesn't want to participate.

Maybe she is fulfilling the long ago established teenage stereotype of perpetual boredom.

Maybe.

She likes brownies. Sophie loves chocolate. So Ryan grabs one from under a pan covered with aluminum foil and he sits by her, on the picnic table bench, offering her the brownie.

"You okay?"

She's fine, she says. She just tired. She's getting up earlier and earlier, trying to get back on schedule because school starts in a week and she can't keep sleeping until noon.

Mom has been all over her lately, stealing the pillow from underneath her head. _"You can't keep sleeping until noon, Sophie."_

She's just tired from having to get up so early.

Ryan nods, remembering his own lazy high school and college patterns.

"Are you cold?" he asks her and when she answers, "No," he points to the sweatshirt with a question mark consisting of raised eyebrows.

"I mean, yes," she responds quickly and her fingers disappear under the cuffs completely, like a snapping turtle retreating into it's shell, until it looks like she has two stumps at the end of her arms instead of any hands at all.

He stays by her the whole night, shuffling over to the grill for two steaks of meaty fish and a beer for himself and a Coke for Sophie.

He wanders around the deck, flipping through his social rolodex, making the rounds person by person, a mental checklist of, "What's up with you, man?" and "How are the kids, Summer?" He nods and answers Sandy's questions and gives detailed answers when Kirsten inquires as to his latest project.

But he keeps one eye on Sophie and he never drifts too far away from the picnic bench.

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It's a peaceful night. The house is up in the hills and most times police and ambulance sirens down below don't carry this far. Sophie has remained withdrawn, interacting a bit when she has to but mostly staying out of the chaos and firmly on the picnic bench.

Out of the blue she says, "I love you, Ryan," legs crisscrossed Indian style as they both watch Sandy extinguish the torches on the lawn and triple check to make sure the gas is turned off the grill.

"Are you sure everything's okay?" he asks her, because usually Sophie is about as open with her sentimentality as Caleb was with his compliments.

She nods. She's all right, A-okay, and he thinks he might see a twitch of a smile on her face.

As long as Sophie is doing it, he might as well follow suit.

A soft nudge of his shoulder to hers. Words that now come easy, because he's an adult and has lived long enough not to hesitate.

"I love you too."

Sophie doesn't respond except…

"That swordfish sucked," she says bluntly, changing the topic as she pulls her hood over her head and stands up.

"Yes it did," Ryan agrees, finishing the last swallow of his lukewarm beer. But he ate the fish anyway because Sandy and Seth don't get too many chances anymore to stand together over a hot grill arguing about proper flipping techniques.

Seth lives two thousand miles away.

The good old days are long over.

"Night, Ryan," Sophie waves, one hand sweeping in an invisible arch.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's September and a water pipe bursts.

Ryan estimates it's gonna' cost about twenty thousand dollars in renovations.

He packs Taylor and the kids up and they settle into Sandy and Kirsten's house until their first floor no longer resembles a floodplain.

It's a tight fit in the Cohen's guest room, but the kids are young and their sleeping bags on Grandma and Grandpa's carpet is an adventure to them, not an inconvenience.

"This used to be my bedroom," Ryan tells his middle daughter as she yawns and lays her head against his chest. She's fresh out of the bath, skin warmed and pink, long wet hair dampening his T-shirt.

"Did you know that?"

Struggling to stay awake, she shakes her head back and forth in a, 'no.'

She's his favorite, although Ryan will never admit that to anyone.

Who would have guessed he'd be married with three girls; two, four, and six.

Matching blond pick-up sticks.

Seth and Summer have twin boys.

Seth says he can't help it if he's got viral manly men sperm and Ryan has girly ones but Ryan reminds him that just one of his girls could kick both of the twins' collective asses and Seth nods and concedes that point.

Three girls.

Who would have guessed it?

Two and Six love pink and princesses.

But not Four.

Hell, Four could probably kick Seth's ass.

Four is all Ryan.

She falls asleep after he finishes reading her a book and Ryan gets a lecture for not brushing her hair because now Taylor insists that it'll be a rat's nest in the morning.

Ryan shrugs because he couldn't care less and he suspects Four feels the same way.

Taylor excommunicates him from the bedtime routine.

"Go. Shoo. You've done enough damage."

He laughs as she shuts the door on him because even after all these years, it's still an absolute joy to aggravate and stir up Taylor.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They stay with Sandy and Kirsten and Sophie for ten days while workers replace drywall and painters spread a new coat of color.

Sunday through another Sunday until Tuesday.

It's more time than Ryan has spent in this house since his sophomore year at Berkeley.

He notices a lot of things in those ten days that no one else seems to notice.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"How'd you get that?" he asks Sophie on day two, pointing to a bruise on her leg.

She's the picture of student athlete, still in her jersey and shorts and cleats after a late game.

"Huh?" she answers, distracted by mounds of homework.

"That's a big bruise," Ryan clarifies, studying her closely as he gently touches the exact spot he was pointing to. "How'd you get it?"

"I don't know. A game. Practice. Whatever."

The key to these things, the key to noticing things Ryan knows, is not listening to the answer, but watching how easily the words come.

Sophie isn't looking him in the face and she isn't continuing to write in her spiral as if his interruption is barely a blip on her radar. She's focusing on her leg, her hand pushing his away and tugging her baggy shorts over the bruise.

It's mid-September and she's already wearing a turtleneck under her jersey. Berkeley and San Francisco can be chilly as all hell but even given that, the kids generally don't resort to warmer gear until later in the season.

"Are you okay?" he asks her. "Is everything all right with you?"

The answer is somewhat inconsequential Ryan has learned.

It's how easily it comes.

"It's…yeah…I mean…school this year is a pain in the ass. My history teacher is a real bitch. And homework and soccer practice and the games…and…so…but…yeah… I'm good."

She's put her pencil down and her snapping turtle fingers disappear under their shell cuffs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On day six of his stay, Ryan offers to drive her to school. "I'm leaving now anyway. Save you the torture of the bus."

Sophie shoves a sandwich and a bottle of water into her backpack and tells him, "Nah. Don't worry about it. I don't mind riding the bus. Besides, I have to finish reading a book for English class."

Two, Four and Six rush at him for hugs goodbye. To save time he scoops them all up at once.

Six claims she's being suffocated, so Ryan eases the pack back down to the floor, pats tummies and backs and faces and picks up his briefcase, and promises to be home at a decent hour.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandy calls him at work asking if he's planning on going to Sophie's game tonight.

Living out of a suitcase, Ryan had forgotten all about it. They have a calendar at his house with all Sophie's games on it and Ryan tries to make at least every other one.

Four likes tagging along with him to see her Aunt Sophie in action while Two and Six stay at home in front of the television and watch some crap Disney movie about fairies or wicked stepmothers or some such shit.

"Kirsten and I can't go. We have a retirement party for a colleague of mine that I really shouldn't miss. I meant to ask you Monday, but with everything happening…"

"No, no, I'm good," Ryan assures him, tidying up the top of his desk by piling the various stacks of assorted papers into one massive column. He hopes no one sneezes or turns on a fan but hell, it's Friday night and he's the only one left in the office, so his stack of "To Do But Still Isn't Done," shame should be safe.

"I got it covered, Sandy. No problem. Can you do me a favor and put Taylor on the line?"

Ryan tells her where he really should tonight and he's sorry.

Taylor's not mad that he's going to see Sophie play soccer instead of coming straight home, but she sounds exhausted and mentally fried, so Ryan promises that he'll relieve her of duties the minute he steps into the house.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hey Mr. Cohen," a teammate of Sophie's greets him.

Kids and parents and teachers make that mistake sometimes.

They get confused with Ryan's place in Sophie's life.

Physically she resembles Ryan so much that when she's out with Taylor and him and the girls, she's often mistaken for his fourth daughter.

Not bothering to make a correction to the teammate, Ryan just smiles and waves back.

The soccer players are slowly assembling with kids in opposing jerseys climbing out of cars to join their coaches on the sidelines. The game is starting much later than Ryan realized and he's actually almost an hour early.

That's okay.

Sophie likes it when he's there for warm-ups. Sometimes the coach has him run a few drills and although she'll never, ever, admit it, Ryan knows that she's secretly thrilled by the fact that he's so involved in her everyday life.

Proximity has contributed to him having a stronger bond to Sophie than Seth most likely ever will.

Still, Ryan always figured that in high school Sophie would want him to disappear to the stands with all the parents, but that hasn't happened yet. She graciously allows him to talk to her in public, even in front of her friends, and that's definitely an upgrade from the exiled status Sandy and Kirsten have now been delegated to.

"Can you get a five person zigzag going, Mr. Atwood?" the coach shouts from the field. He points to Ryan's business attire. "Do you mind? You're not dressed for it."

"Nah. I'm good," Ryan hollers back.

He glances behind his shoulder, wondering where Sophie is. He almost calls Sandy or Kirsten, to make sure that she's getting a ride to the game from a friend, but he gets distracted when five girls jog over, tossing him a soccer ball.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It's thirty minutes until the game is scheduled to begin and Ryan is officially getting worried.

He locates Sophie's best friend, Tara, and inquires as to whether of not she knows where his sister is.

"Ummmmm," Tara says, averting her eyes to the ground. "She uh……."

Ryan's radar perks up.

"Where's she at?" he asks good-naturedly, attempting to sound casual and not at all suspicious.

"She's kinda'…with Micheal."

"Michael?" Ryan asks.

Blinks.

There's a Michael?

Who's Michael?

He keeps himself composed but he can't suppress that twitchy smile he makes when he's receiving news that he think might result in him being…possibly upset.

"Sophie's never mentioned a friend named Michael. Does he go to school with you guys?"

"Uhhhhhh, yeeeeeeaaaahhhh," Tara nods.

Ryan puts a hand on his hip and makes an _'I'd appreciate it if you would elaborate a little more'_ face and Tara answers him with all kinds of guilt in her voice. "He's sort of the boyfriend I'm not supposed to tell anyone about."

"Oh," Ryan simply answers, surprised and confused because he had no idea Sophie was dating anyone and given Tara's answer, he's fairly certain neither do Kirsten of Sandy.

"All right, well, thanks Tara. You've been very helpful. I'll just…Okay, then." he gestures out to the field with a sweep of his hand. "Thanks. You'd better get back to…" he motions with a swirling finger to the warm-up drill he pulled her from.

"Are you gonna' tell her I told you?" Tara asks hesitantly. "She'll be so mad at me."

There's only one way to get to the game field and Ryan fully intends to be standing in the parking lot when Michael and Sophie show up.

"Nope," Ryan tells her. "I think we can safely keep you out of it."

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The boy's car is red and expensive looking and driving way too fast considering this is a public park with little kids running around.

Michael is definitely exceeding the posted 15 miles an hour speed limit.

Ryan suspects Sophie has spotted him standing there because the car comes to a screeching halt further away from him than is necessary and the passenger side door is already opening.

Ryan jogs five miles everyday and there is no way in hell he's gonna' let thirty feet of paved cement prevent him from meeting Sophie's latest, 'friend.' He's fast and he's up to the car before Sophie can fully pull her backpack and soccer bag from the back seat.

He goes to her side of the car, slightly winded from trying to run in formal shoes, and tells her briskly, no-nonsense, "You better go. You're late."

Sophie's head is down, concentrated on the parking lot pavement, but she whispers in a pleading plead, "Please don't do this to me, Ryan. I'll explain everything after the game. Please. Please. Don't embarrass me."

"Your team is waiting," is all Ryan says, concentrating on the boy who's staring straight ahead at the car's windshield, instead of his listening to his sister who is begging him to be a friend and not a concerned brother.

"Get going Sophie."

"Fine," she answers coldly. "Whatever. Ruin my life. Have a good time. Don't bother staying for the game. I'll go home with Tara."

She stomps off, struggling to balance her two bags while semi-jogging.

Ryan leans into the sports car.

"Can you park a second?" he asks the kid. "I'd like to get to know you a little bit."

"Dude, I don't have time," Michael says, barely bothering to look in Ryan's direction. "I gotta' go."

The kid sounds cocky as all hell and that? Is one thing Ryan has never, ever been able to tolerate.

He not-really smiles at the teenager, eyes scrunched up with a nod, and he tells him with jab in the direction of an available parking spot, "I need you to make time…Dude."

Michael lets out an agitated breath and nods back and eye locks with Ryan in a defiant ten second stare-off, before conceding, "I guess I can give ya' five minutes."

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Only twenty seconds into the conversation, Ryan has decided that he cannot stand the punk. Michael hasn't bothered to come out of the car and to make matters more irritating, he answers all of Ryan's questions with the enthusiasm of a dying sloth.

"How long have you known Sophie?" Ryan asks, leaning into the open window.

"A while."

"What's your last name?"

"Birmingham."

"How long have you guys been dating?"

Michael shrugs, "I don't know, it's not like I keep a calendar."

How long before I kick your ass, shithead?

Ryan doesn't ask that one out loud.

"Are you a sophomore?"

"Junior. Can I go now?"

Ryan utters a frustrated "hmffff." This kid's lack of respect is seriously pissing him off.

"No," he answers Michael sharply. "Not yet. Listen, you need to meet Sophie's parents before you go out with her again."

"You're not her dad?" the teenager asks with more interest than he's shown the entire conversation. "I just thought…you know…since you're so old."

Wow…

Is Ryan done with this kid.

D.O.N.E.

What in the hell does Sophie see in him?

Old? What the fuck.

Okay, yeah, people might think Ryan might had Sophie in his late teens, but old?

Ryan's sure he isn't old. Old? He doesn't look old.

Smug little fucker.

"You can go now," Ryan says, standing up, pushing himself off the ledge of window. "But don't go near my sister until you meet her parents."

He slaps a business card on Michael's dashboard.

"My cell number's on it. Call me for their address."

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Sophie might have told Ryan she was going home with Tara, but that's not gonna' happen. She's stuck with him.

She won't look or talk to Ryan the entire drive home, holed up into herself like a stubborn hippie staging a sit-in.

When he pulls into the driveway he asks Sophie, "Are you going to tell Sandy and Kirsten or am I?"

"Go to hell," she mutters, slamming her door, leaving Ryan all alone in the car.

And he supposes that's just about the answer he was expecting.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sandy and Kirsten aren't back from the retirement dinner yet and Two, Four and Six are all over him demanding attention.

Taylor has declared him a single parent for the rest of the evening.

Ryan tries to talk to Sophie one more time while juggling Six in the bath, Four in his arms and Two running away from him butt naked because she's going through her "NO CLOTHES DADDY!" phase, but Sophie won't open her bedroom door and Ryan will not violate her personal space. That would just alienate Sophie further.

Taylor leaves pizza and a glass of chocolate milk outside the bedroom door, telling Sophie in her most, "I'm the understanding one, unlike Ryan," voice, that they will all be downstairs and to please come and see her if Sophie wants to talk about it.

An hour later the pizza has disappeared but there's no sign of Sophie.

Four, with her hair wet and uncombed, claims Ryan's lap and hands him a picture book.

Ryan sighs and wraps his arm around his daughter's waist and flips to the redundant pages one through twenty-five he's read a million times before.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Did you know Sophie has a boyfriend?" he asks, after Sandy and Kirsten have had a chance to change their clothes and are settled on the couch.

Kirsten is the first to respond with a surprised, "What?" followed up by Sandy's "Since when?"

"Sophie has a boyfriend," Ryan repeats to Kirsten and answers "I don't know," to Sandy's question.

Sandy turns off the television and says in his typical laidback fashion, "Well, that's news, isn't it, honey?"

Kirsten's feelings sound hurt when she asks Ryan, "She told you…and not me?"

Ryan shakes his head, 'no.'

"It was more of an unplanned discovery. Sophie's mad I busted her. She won't talk to me."

"Welcome to the club," Sandy tells him. "This'll be good practice for when your girls are older."

"How long have they been dating?" Kirsten asks, still seeming quite befuddled in the way only a mother can sound once she realizes that she's lost control of a child she's not lost control of before.

"I have no clue," Ryan shrugs. He mutters under his breath, "Evidently he isn't keeping a calendar," while suppressing the desire to say, 'And the guy is a punk asshole,' because it's not fair to Sophie for him to bias Kirsten's and Sandy's perception of Michael.

"I think he's pretty wealthy," Ryan adds. "He had a nice car. In fact that's how I caught them. He drove her to the game today."

Kirsten wants to know the boy's name and Ryan tells her, "Michael Birmingham."

"Yep," Sandy leans back on the couch and reaches for the remote. "Birmingham. That would be a yes to the whole wealthy guess."

The conversation ends when Kirsten assures them, "I'll talk to her."

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In the morning after Sophie has left for the bus, Ryan wanders into the kitchen trying to run a brush through Four's hopelessly tangled hair.

"You should do that when it's still wet," Kirsten suggests. "Before she sleeps on it."

"Right," Ryan cringes. "Never thought of that."

Four glances up at him questioningly. "But mommy tells you that all the time."

Ryan silences her with a finger on her lips.

He hastily changes the subject.

"So, did you get a chance to talk to Sophie?"

Kirsten pours him a cup of coffee and nods, 'yes.'

"She promises to stop seeing Micheal until we can sit down with him. I'm disappointed with her. She knows to always bring boys home before she goes out on a date, let alone begin a relationship awith them."

"She's had other relationships?" Sandy asks from behind a newspaper and bagel. "How is it that I don't find these things out until after the fact?"

"I was speaking in future tense," Kirsten says, pulling the paper down. "And it would be helpful, Sandy, if you told her tonight that sneaking around behind our backs in unacceptable."

Ryan sighs in parental frustration.

He declares Four's hair the winner of this round and gives up trying to brush it.

"Wear your baseball hat today, make sure you stuff all your hair under it" he instructs her, retrieving a box of sugary cereal from a cabinet and handing it to his daughter.

No milk needed.

She's her father's child.

Four follows him around munching happily as he gathers his briefcase and car keys.

"Do you believe Sophie, that she'll stay away from him?" Ryan asks skeptically, taking a few hurried, careful sips of his steaming coffee.

Sandy holds his hands out wide, like he's estimating the size of a hooked catfish. "What choice do we have? It's not like we can chain her to the house. I learned that lesson twenty years ago."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Throughout Saturday and Sunday, Ryan notices a few more things.

Even though she's trapped with all of them over the weekend, Sophie isn't talking to anyone at home over the age of six.

But it's not just the shunning by his sister that is troubling him.

It's that Sophie's entire demeanor in general is transforming.

She's just not herself.

Not as bubbly.

More and more withdrawn.

"Seth was the same way," Sandy tells him when Ryan asks how long Sophie's personality has been changing. "I'm not sure if anything out of that brat's mouth wasn't full of contempt or sarcasm after he turned eleven. At least we got five more years out of Sophie before she turned on us. And no offense kid, but you're the last one who should be surprised that a teenager doesn't want to communicate."

Ryan accepts the answer.

It makes sense.

He's not around Sophie all the time like Kirsten or Sandy are.

She's probably been slowly but surely becoming more and more like a typical teen over the past few months.

It's just because he's temporarily living at the house that he's suddenly aware of how different Sophie's acting.

Still…he asks Taylor on Sunday if she would try and talk to Sophie, make sure she's really okay.

"I know Sandy said not to worry about it but…"

Taylor smiles at him.

"But…you can't let it go."

Ryan nods. "Pretty much."

"Of course you can't," Taylor says before kissing him on the check. "Some things, Ryan Atwood, never change."

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Day nine, Monday morning, rolls around and the foreman of the rehab crew assures Ryan that they are almost done.

It's frustrating as all hell for him to not be able to oversee his own house rehab because he's too busy, as an architect, heading up someone else's building project.

If his own house isn't done properly, Taylor will never stop making fun of him.

Oh well.

Can't do much about it. Besides, he suspects that Bobby the foreman is more than aware of Ryan's expectations.

He has lots of loose ends to tie up professionally and personally in the next two days.

Michael still hasn't called him or contacted the Cohen's and Taylor got no where talking with Sophie.

Ryan doesn't want to end the visit with Sophie mad at him. It's the first time ever that the two of them have fought with each other and Ryan can't push it from his mind.

"Ryan?" his secretary, Genie, pops her head into his office. "Your sister's on the phone. Should I put her through?"

"Sophie's calling?" he asks surprised.

"Yes. Sophie. I thought you only had one sister," Genie says, her eyes clouded with perplextion.

"I do, it's just that she's not exactly talking to me right now."

Genie cocks her head to the right. "So….don't put the call through?"

"Yes…I mean no…don't not put the call through."

Genie stares at him.

"Translation please."

"I want to talk to her."

"Alrighty then," Genie nods. "Line two."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I'm sorry for being so mean to you," Sophie says, sounding sad and if Ryan's not mistaken, maybe a little teary. "Please don't hate me."

It's only ten in the morning.

Too early for her lunch. Why isn't she in class?

"Hey, Sophie, it's okay. Of course I don't hate you," he gently assures her. "Believe me, I did a lot worse things at your age."

He hits himself on the forehead Homer Simpson style.

That was a stupid thing to say.

Now she'll be bugging him to find out specifically what he did that was so bad…and God, there were a lot of things.

How Sandy and Kirsten put up with it all he will never figure out. He was done trying to solve that mystery a long, long time ago.

"Do you still love your dad, Ryan?"

The question catches him so off guard that he sits speechless for a moment.

"I…uh…are you alright, Soph? What's wrong?"

"You still love him, right? I mean even though Frank used to hit you and say horrible things to you, he's different now and you still love him, right?"

Ryan can't….Sophie is asking…

"Sophie…this isn't really…that question…it's not so easy to answer over the phone. Listen, why don't I pick you up for lunch and we can talk in person, okay?"

Ryan had no idea Sophie even knew that Frank used to hit him and this conversation is so completely out of left field that he can't possible just casually talk to her about his childhood on the phone in the middle of the work day. It's too complicated, what happened to him all those years ago.

"No, forget it," she says quickly. "It was stupid…I better go."

"Sophie, hey. You caught me off guard, that's all. You know what? I'll just come to the school right now. We'll do an early lunch, pretend you have a dentist appointment or something. Does that sound good?"

Ryan waits for an answer.

"Forget it Ryan. I was supposed to ask you about it last night. It was a homework assignment."

Things keep getting weirder and weirder.

"A teacher told you to talk to someone about…"

He hates saying the next two words.

His own children will never, ever, hear these words out of his mouth. "Child abuse?"

"No, it's not like that." She insists. "I was supposed to do research and write a paper but I was going to be lazy and just ask you, but it's too late because it's due today and I'm sorry I called you. It was a stupid thing to do."

"It's okay," he tells her. "I just…I didn't know…that you knew about… me…it. Tell the teacher that I asked if you could have one more day. We'll sit down tonight after the girls go to sleep and talk about it. I'll write a note explaining it's my fault the paper is late."

"Just forget about it," she says, rejecting his offer. "Seriously, it's no big deal. It's not even worth a full grade. Sorry I wasted your time. Don't tell Mom or Dad. They'll be pissed I wasn't more responsible."

She sounds even more upset than when she first called, but it makes sense, he guesses, that she's upset because she's a straight A student in all honors classes and she'll probably get her ass chewed out by whichever classroom teacher it is, because honors teachers don't fuck around with incomplete assignments.

Sophie tells him she'll see him at home and she promises she won't be snotty to him anymore and remember, Ryan…she says…don't tell Mom and Dad that she called.

And then she hangs up.

And Ryan's just plain confused.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Six made him a sculpture in art class and she can't wait to show it too him. She shoves it at him the minute Ryan opens the Cohen's front door.

It looks like…well it looks like a pile of…well, it looks like something that only Seth or his equally tactless twins would be willing to say out loud.

Six is a bag of microwave popcorn vibrating with excitement. "It's your office, Daddy! I made your office! Do you see, do you see??"

"Of course," he exclaims. "It looks just like it."

He puts his finger on a specific spot on the glob of dried clay and asks, "Is that my desk?"

Six gives him a curious glance and turns the sculpture to a different angle and informs him, "That's not your desk, Daddy. It's Genie."

"Right. Now I see it," Ryan nods up and down, raising his hand high above Six's head, out of her view, so he can give Taylor the finger as she silently mocks him, enjoying the hot seat he's frying on. "You even made Genie's laptop, right?"

Six shakes her head back and forth, disappointed, her bottom lip protruding in the beginning stages of a pout.

"No. _That's_ your chair. Can't you see it?"

"Oh," says Ryan, standing up straight.

He needs to save himself.

He pats Six on her head and slips the art project into his suit jacket pocket. "This is just perfect. I already know where I'm gonna' put it. Can you do me a favor? I would ask one of your sisters to do it, but I don't trust them enough with this job. They're too little to do it right."

That request diverts Six's attention immediately away from her sculpture.

The sibling rivalry card is a bad, bad, one to play but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Six stares up at him in anticipation.

Right.

A job.

He promised Six a job.

"Here," he holds out his briefcase. "Can you put this in the bedroom for me?"

"Okay," she agrees eagerly, taking it from his hand, dragging and lugging it like a reluctant puppy towards the stairs.

"Very, very smooth," Taylor teases. "Wow, can you tap dance your way around a six-year-old."

"What?" he asks innocently, wrapping his hands around Taylor's waist and lifting her up so that her head is slightly above his. "It's heavy. I'm tired."

As he kisses her, soft and deep and so, so, fucking full of wanting and need and passion, it's all Ryan he can think about… what a wonderful thing it will be when they go get to their own home, back to some semblance of privacy, because he's not sure if he can make it one more day without sex.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan insists that Taylor do something, anything, strictly for herself because being trapped with kids all day, especially in someone else's house…well…he wouldn't be able to do it, that's for damn sure…and she should just go out tonight and relax.

She and Kirsten decide to head into the city for a book reading followed by a late dinner.

There's a massive playground a couple of miles from Sandy and Kirsten's house, so Ryan loads the girls into his Rover, patiently clicks three squirming kids into safety restraints and hits the road. When they get to the playground, Six scrambles for the slides and Two plunks herself down in the middle of the sandbox, seemingly quite entertained by the action of burying her toes in and out of the soft sand.

Four puts her hand in Ryan's, "Come on, Daddy," and leads him to a bench.

He finds a comfortable spot and up Four goes, right into his lap and there they both stay until the sun is threatening to set.

Words and stories and whispers, all from Four, to him, with soft hands around his neck and trust…

So much trust.

Her head against his chest, Ryan understands. He gets it.

Moments.

Six begins to complain she's hungry and Ryan's relatively certain that Two just swallowed a rock.

Yep, he should probably be heading home.

To the Rover they go, one kid on his shoulders hanging onto his hair for dear life, one piggy back, and one a sack of potatoes in the crux of his left arm so he can just manage to keep the other two balanced with his right.

It's during the drive home, his children chatting away in back seat, that Ryan realizes the answer to Sophie's question.

"_Do you still love your dad, Ryan?"_

No, he doesn't love his father and to be honest, he's never really forgiven him.

"_You still love him, right? I mean even though Frank used to hit you and say horrible things to you, he's different now and you still love him, right?"_

Maybe once he loved him, when he was as little and his trust as unconditional as Four or Two's, but he knows for sure, Ryan can absolutely remember, that by the time he was Six's age, he already hated his father.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ryan thinks now he's ready to talk to Sophie.

She's the first person who ever asked him the question about Frank and she just might be the only person who ever hears the answer because in all his life, Sophie is the first to ask.

She's had another hectic day.

Comic book club followed by soccer practice.

By the time she gets home, it's night and the girls are finished with baths and are watching TV with Sandy.

It's Grandpa's choice of channels tonight.

Ryan has no idea what Sandy is exposing his granddaughters to, he thinks maybe it's a documentary on Civil Rights, but whatever it is, it's freeing Ryan up to wait on the porch for Sophie.

Tara's car pulls into the driveway and she waves to him as Sophie extricates herself and what appears to be forty pounds of backpack from the sedan.

Ryan gets up and jogs over to help Sophie carry everything.

She's dusty, grass stains covering large patches of her practice uniform and dirt on the side of her face.

"Bricks?" he asks her, heaving up the backpack.

"I wish," she mutters. "More like two years worth of homework. Oh, and Tara has a severe crush on you. She told me last week that she would totally have sex with you and wouldn't even feel guilty about Taylor or the kids."

Ryan swallows and doesn't respond.

"There," Sophie says with a smirk. "I know she's the one that told you about Michael so, now I'm even with her. Be sure and mention it to her next time you come to a game."

No. He won't be doing that.

When they reach the porch, Ryan asks her if she can wait a second before going into the house. He'd like to speak with her about the midmorning phone call to his office.

Sophie doesn't seem too thrilled about the prospect of talking and tells him once again to just forget about it, it was wrong of her to ask any questions.

"Are you sure?" Ryan says. "Because it seemed like you wanted to know. I don't mind talking about it. It's just…no one really ever asked me anything before."

Sophie is an ice sculpture, hand suspend between reaching for the doorknob to go into the house or staying with Ryan.

She chooses to talk to him, reversing her direction and sitting on the white stone railing that outlines the porch. There's silence as she settles herself.

"Frank hit you? Right?" she asks.

Ryan clears his throat.

"Yes."

Sophie's head is down, her foot nervously tapping the air. "But he stopped, he stopped hitting you eventually. I mean, people who hit people they love, they can stop. Just because they hit you, it doesn't mean they don't love you. They just get angry and lose their temper. And Frank doesn't hit you anymore and he's never, ever, hit Jackson or Julie, because Jackson would tell me if he did, so, people can change and stop hitting people they love …eventually. Right?"

Ryan watches her.

Her foot is going a million miles an hour.

"And you still love him, right, Ryan? Even though Frank hit you when you made him angry?"

Ryan thinks, 'where to begin?'

Where to start?

He and Trey were children and Dawn was almost a full foot shorter than his dad. Anger was no excuse. Everyone gets angry. Frank…It's takes a special kind of person to hit defenseless women and children.

"And he was sorry, right? Did Frank tell your mom that he was sorry?"

Yes. He did. All the time.

His dad was always sorry but it took a thirteen year jail sentence to make him stop hitting.

"So just because he hit your mom, he still loved her and it was okay if she didn't hate him or break up with him. It was okay that she still loved him. You don't have to break up with someone just because they hit you."

Just because they hit you.

Ryan notices things.

He knows what to listen for.

"Sophie?" he asks and he's noticed things, little things, since that day in August.

Little things that probably no one else has noticed but they've been nagging at Ryan, in-between the kids and work and Taylor and life and water all over his downstairs furniture, he's been noticing little things about Sophie.

"Sophie?" he asks, "How long have you and Michael been together? Were you with him this summer? Were you dating in August?"

Her hands play snapping turtle under the cuffs of her jersey and Ryan stands up and goes towards the railing and watches her.

Did his mom break up with his dad? Was it okay that she still loved him?

And he knows.

Ryan knows what to listen for.

This isn't about him and his childhood at all, not really.

Her questions…this isn't really about him.

"Sophie, does Michael hit you?"

It's not her answers that are going to matter.

It's how easily they come.

"No," she shakes her head adamantly.

Her foot is a compass needle frantically searching for north. Shaking. Tapping.

"Are you sure?" Ryan asks.

Sophie purses her lips and continues to shake her head in denial, telling him once again, "No," but there's a little less conviction in her answer and Ryan is starting to feel a little sick to his stomach.

His body always reverts to the same old same old since youth, of blinks and staring ahead and breathing through his nose and a twitchy tremor of blinking and, 'Don't fuck around with me. Answer me.'

Small movements.

Ryan takes a step closer to the railing and says calmly, "I think Michael hit you," and Sophie lowers her head and scoots away from him and tells Ryan,

"Only once, I swear. Just one time,"

and her answer steals the air from Ryan's lungs.

There's no more air.

Not Sophie.

Jesus, God, not Sophie,

Angry men claimed his mother and Theresa and Marissa but fuck, please, not Sophie.

Not her too.

That's not fair.

He left all that behind.

And there's never just one hit or kick or punch or slap, not unless someone walks away and never comes back, and even then, the words have already done a lifetime of damage.

Sophie's been wearing long sleeves since at least August and there's never just one hit.

"When?" he asks. "When did he hit you? Was it that day you were doing your homework at the table and I asked you about the bruise on your leg? Did Michael kick you?"

"No," she swears. "No. That was a different time."

Ryan can't breath.

That bruise was different time.

"I mean…that's not what happened, Ryan. That was an accident and that wasn't his fault and he didn't mean it that time."

"Sophie," Ryan says her name directly and like a father, like he sometimes has to say one of his daughter's names to get their attention.

"Did Michael cause that bruise on your leg?"

She won't look in the face.

"It was an accident."

Ryan rubs his temple, then his eyes, then pinches the bridge of his nose and he holds his hand there on his face for a second because he literally cannot believe what he's hearing.

Not Sophie.

Not her too.

"How many more times?" he asks quietly.

How many more accidents?

"I have to go do homework," she says, but she doesn't make an effort to move.

He edges close to her and when she doesn't scoot further down the railing to get away from him, Ryan sits down next to her.

Her hand edges out of her sleeves.

His next to hers, on the railing.

Almost touching.

Than hand on hand.

Then fingers intertwined.

Soft and hesitant and he feels them, Ryan feels her fingers, wanting to hold his.

"How many more times, Soph?"

It's dark on the porch, just one light mounted beside the front door, causing most of their bodies to be cast in shadows.

Shadows to hide in and shadows make it easier.

Sophie rubs a tear away from her face and Ryan notices something.

The dirt on the side of her face is still there.

None of it came away with the sleeve.

Not a single bit.

He wipes at the dirt himself gently with two fingers and when Sophie flinches away from his touch Ryan realizes that it's not dirt or dust.

The dark shadows on her face aren't shadows at all.

"Did he do this?" Ryan asks, fingers on skin, gentle, probing. "Did he hit you on your face? When did he do this, Sophie?"

And now Ryan's not as confused.

Today.

It all makes sense now.

Everything he's noticed.

Michael hit her today, somewhere she couldn't hide it with homework and a busy schedule and withdrawn and baggy shorts or shirts on turtle hands.

Sophie called Ryan from school and asked him if he still loved his father and this was never about him as much as it was about Sophie.

"Did Michael hit you, Sophie?"

Please, not Sophie.

"He said he was sorry, Ryan. He promised not to do it again."

There's no air on the porch and please, not Sophie.

Not Sophie.

That's not fair and there's no air anywhere and Ryan can't breathe.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The end.

As always, thanks for reading.


End file.
